Routine Kept Him Sane
by Mothmanb11
Summary: A man living alone in a remote violent corner of the Capitol Wasteland embarks on a journey beyond his known world in search of something even his doesn't full understand. Enjoy.
1. Chapter 1

The sun rose over the blasted landscape of the wasteland. Shattered remains of buildings and their kin rested amongst ashes in the gloom as the sun brought light to them. A wasteland sunrise can be called beautiful or insidious, depending who you asked. Beautiful for the colours it made by running through water particles and radioactive dust in the air, insidious for the same reasons. The beautifully insidious light shined upon the landscape, illuminating mutated creatures crawling about charred terrain, ruins of a by-gone day, and the endless mounds of sand and dust. Eventually the light discovered an intact house, or almost intact. One small side of the roof was broken and deformed from where old timbers had collapsed upon themselves, allowing an opening inside.

Sun filtered through this broken roof, scattering its pale light across the floor. It spread like a disease across the room slowly, illuminating ancient images of years gone by. Pictures that once showed landscapes of beautifully cut lawns and happy couples were half eaten by insects. Flowered wallpaper peeled at regular points, showing a rotting wooden back wall. The light illuminated dust particles in the air, and caused them to dance as if in delight of its presence. As the minutes ticked by, the sunlight radiated itself upon a pile of musty old blankets on a rusting bed frame. The blankets moved in reaction to the light and a bearded face squinted at the sudden illumination. He threw off the blankets revealing a lightly clothed body on a thin mattress. The man on the bed stretched and rose from the mattress, still blinking furiously at the blinding light.

Rising from the bed, he folded the old blankets and placed them on the wire frame. Pointless, the man thought, no one will care. The man folded them every day and pondered why he did so. Part of routine, he replied to himself. The man entered the aging bathroom adjacent to the bedroom, and stripped himself of clothing. Reaching into a cupboard behind a broken mirror, he plucked a bottle of water from the shelf and unscrewed the top. Using as little as he could, the man poured the contents over his body, rubbing a mouldy bar of soap at the same time. This process did little for his overall hygiene, but it gave him a sense of normality and order. That was what he liked, routine, something predictable to happen every day. It kept him sane, which was a commodity in this godforsaken land.

Putting fresher clothes on, the man ventured down a decaying staircase into his 'kitchen' where he ate his meals. Kitchen wasn't the right word to call it. It might have been once, but the single stove, counter, sink, and few cupboards hardly constituted a place to prepare meals. He opened a cabinet to reveal several cans of spam, plenty of old tinned beans, and other odds and ends encased in slightly rusted metal cans. Not much to provide sustenance but you took what you received in these parts. The man settled on some beans and cooked the can over the refurbished oven, trying to even heat all over it. When the can was warm enough, he brought it to the table and ate them. The beans tasted like shit, but the man didn't complain, he never did. He washed the shitty beans down with some water and removed himself from the table. He washed the empty tin in some slightly irradiated water and tossed it into a box with other such tins. Nearly full, the man thought, can take those into town soon and barter. They're always looking for metal of any kind.

Town was the normal thing to call the place. Town was a group of ten less buildings surrounded by fence constructed from the remains of cars. Town was twenty plus kilometres from where the man lived, and constituted the only trading outpost for hundreds of kilometres in any direction. It was routine for the man to travel into town once a week and sell what was scavenged and see what he could find. Usually, he could turn a very small profit from the few things he found, and use it to buy a beer, stock up on more canned goods or replenish his clean water supply. This, again, kept him sane. Contact with people and a something to look forward to every week kept the mind thinking, kept it from being crushed by the hopeless monotony of wasteland life. There had been a time when he had such company at the house, but that was a memory he tried not to remain upon.

His weekly trip to town wasn't for two more days. He would be spending the ones before searching the wasteland for anything of sustenance or value. Sometimes you find something useful, like metal or spare parts. Most of the time the man came home empty handed, but there were days when something interesting that could fetch a price was found. Each day the man ventured further and further from home, examining every ruin, every cave, and every little notch he saw. Scavenging was how the majority of people survived in this part of the wasteland. The man grunted when he remembered this bit of information, and returned his thoughts to routine. At this point in the day his routine dictated him to prepare for his outing, so he traveled to the basement.

The man climbed down a set of stairs into the basement, where he kept his few possessions and whatever he salvaged from the wastes. His possessions included a workbench and his collection of weapons, along with ruined parts from cars and guns. He grabbed a freshly fixed rifle from the bench and checked to see it was loaded. Protection was important in the wasteland, creatures and people wouldn't hesitate to kill if it meant money or food. A box of shells rested next to the gun, and the man pocketed them. He hardly fired more than a few rounds but should the unexpected happen, he liked to be prepared. As an extra safety, he grabbed a pistol with six shots in it. Never hurt to be prepared. The wasteland harboured many dangers.

On the main floor, the man prepared to exit his residence. He opened a closet and reached for a sac with which he carried what he salvaged. To brace himself against the radioactive winds, he sported a large dust coloured cloak. Putting it on, everything was concealed beneath the cloak, allowing an element of surprise. He reached for a hat that would have impressed western film stars and unbolted the several locks on his door. Outside, the wasteland stretched on before him, inviting him to enter its depths and fall victim to its dangers. The man obliged, tipping his hat against the dusty winds, closing the door as he wandered into a bleak landscape. A small sandstorm brewed in the lands, and he calmly strode into it, vanishing from sight. All part of his routine; routine kept him sane.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Dust swirled around the man in the bleak sunlight. Visibility was low, but this was fine for him; he had spent many years traveling through the dust and the path he walked was imprinted into the back of his mind. As for the dust, it never bothered the man anymore; he had long ago learned to cope with it. His only worry out here was the various creatures and men who would kill him. The marauders, bandits, and mercenary groups were the main dangers, smaller animals he could handle, but he feared the day when he came face to face with a fully grown radscorpion or a deathclaw.

The dust and sand twisted and channelled around the man's body, like a rock in a gritty sea. Despite these vision impediments, he knew what he was looking for; markers of stone that he himself assembled to show the way. Although he knew the path easily, the violent sandstorms would sometimes engulf the land about him, rendering few visible landmarks. He could march in the same general direction but needed to know when to change his course, thus he had put up stone markers, his only compass in the storms.

After thirty minutes of traveling in the same direction, he reached the first of these markers, a pile of blackened rocks and stones just about three feet high. The first of many, thought the man, the trip is always close to three hours to the site. From this marker he knew where to travel next; in the westward direction, for he knew there was the second of his markers, marking the path to where he hadn't explored and salvaged yet. This was part of his routine; salvage an area for everything he could then move the stones to indicate more plentiful lands.

The beginning of the day went by quickly, which was unusual for the man. There were times when the hours dragged on for days, and every minute was its own little piece of hellish boredom. This was not one of those days, the man noticed. There was a scent in the air, a sour taste that hinted of the unusual, something that indicated abnormality from routine. Had he been a more superstitious man, he might have taken these as signs of abnormality. However, the years of relative solitude had erased any previous thoughts on such a matter, and he thought nothing more of it.

After what he assumed to be the routine time of three hours, the last of the markers loomed ahead. This time the rocks were splashed with yellow paint. The man used colour coding to identify the areas he had or had not searched. Green meant it was unexplored by him, yellow showed any area in the process of being explored, and red marked a spot where he had exhausted all potentially useful and valuable items. The area he was currently entering had only just been discovered by the man days ago, partly by accident. The heavy, dark yellow splash of paint on the rocks was pointed in upwardly direction, indicating that the area was straight ahead.

In the direction of the arrow was a massive wall of solid rock that twisted in many directions, like an ancient sea suddenly petrified by a mystical event. This marvel of nature contained something hidden though; that was why the man had begun to search this previously unexplored section of land. From a distance, it resembled a simple wall of rock but upon closer inspection, a wide, short tunnel exposed an open area about two hundred meters in diameter surrounded by the high rock wall. Inside this circular area rested an aged collection of tents, tarpaulin lean-tos and pre-fabricated shelters.

In the man's mind, the large array of assorted shelters had taken advantage of the open area to protect them from the sandy and dusty winds. Dates on the tents indicated that it had been assembled prior to the Great War, and it was incredible that they had stayed upright. The man assumed the natural shape of this area had kept them intact. Long abandoned, the collection of shelters provided plenty of opportunity for salvaging items, though little had been found so far.

Judging by the height of the sun in the sky, the man imagined it was a little after noon, giving him three hours of salvaging lest he stay out past sunset. Despite the enclosed areas illusion of safety, night was dangerous. That was when more of the wildlife was out than in the day, and Yao Guai frequented the sandy landscape. Without proper protection or some form of rigid shelter, night was hell in these parts. It was about time to get started.

Starting at the tent closest to him, the man began a careful search around and inside, looking for anything of value. He generally covered the same area plenty of times over, in order to find anything previously hidden or missed during his search. His routine was to search an area this size around a week in order to ensure all salvageable pieces were gathered. The only problem with searching was that the areas he explored had usually been previously looted and scavenged. That was part of the job though.

The work was slow and tedious, but that was normal. Sifting through dirt and sand, emptying drawers, bags and potential hiding places held little thrill unless something was found. The man remained stony faced during his searches until he came to the seventh tent. There he found a small collection of metal cutlery, slightly blackened by fire and rusty by age. He grinned and put the cutlery in his bag. Those would fetch a decent price in town; someone was always looking for remnants of the old world as they called it.

The two hours went by slowly, and the man found himself checking the sun's height in the sky. After what he estimated to be three hours, the man's bag was only slightly heavier than it had been before. Among the cutlery he had discovered earlier were a few pieces of scrap metal, old tin cans, and a few odds and ends. It wasn't much but this was the lifestyle the man had chosen for himself; a solemn lonely life digging through the sand and ash looking for items to sell for petty cash. The man sighed and took one last glance about the encampment. He would return tomorrow in order to give a last search, and then go to the town the day after to sell what trinkets he had found.

The evening would hold little more excitement for him; they too were dictated by routine. The man usually ate several cans of food to compensate for his lack of middle meal, and then washed them for sale. After that, he would go to the basement to work on some project or another or make some minor house repairs. The last hours of the night before sleep involved tuning into one of the local radio station, such as Galaxy News far away in Washington, music programs from throughout the east coast or, when he wanted some comedy, the patriotic rants on Enclave Radio.

The man was thinking about the night just as he was beginning his walk to the closest marker when he heard the voices. Instinct told him to drop to the ground and remain motionless. Shit, the man thought, shit. Voices out here were a bad thing. Only the raiders and mercenaries traveled out in these god-forsaken lands, with the exception being the man himself. Like practiced survival routine dictated, the man remained on the ground, then got up and crept slowly back through the tunnel to the encampment. Hiding in the open would be pointless unless he had a sand coloured cloak, but unfortunately his was darker. The man slowly walked backward, than sprinted quickly to the farthest tent, where he closed the flaps and listened.

The voices were growing louder, as the men speaking drew closer to his position. From their tone, the man confirmed his fears; they were raiders. Their numbers were unknown as there was only the one voice currently talking. Sliding open a flap slowly, the man peeked out and glanced about the encampment. Nothing indicated the raiders were there, but the voices were closer still. Shit, thought the man again, and he pulled his rifle from his pack. It was already loaded, a previous precaution against these dangers. Poking the muzzle through the flap, the man watched for movement at the tunnel's mouth. Should there be only two or three raiders, the man stood a chance, more than that number and he would either have to stay in place or hope the raiders left. Otherwise, death stood grinning upon his threshold.

As he watched, the raiders entered encampment. There were three of them, which was a relief for the man. His survival odds were going up, and he had a chance of killing the raiders. Using the homemade scope on his rifle, the man examined his foes. The first of the raiders was tall and muscled, trouble should he discover the man. He was carrying a rather large sledgehammer, which had the faintest of bloodstains on it. The middle one was of average height, and looked the most dangerous, like a veteran fighter. He had a very well kept sniper rifle for his weapon. Finally there was a small skinny one, about five feet and three inches high, carrying a machine gun. He was the voice he had originally heard minutes ago. Previously it was muffled and incoherent, but now he could understand them.

"What the hell is this place," said the smallest in nasally voice, "there ain't been shit here for years!"

"Shut up," the largest replied in a deep voice, "We've got a tip there's something out here."

"Bah, your tips are about as reliable as finding a puddle out here! We ain't found shit for days, and the boss'll be furious unless we find a nice haul. You're tip better know what the fuck he's telling us!"

"Quiet you two," said the third. Even his voice was menacing and dangerous sounding, "the tip is accurate. Any man living out here knows of the stories associated with these lands."

The man's curiosity was piqued; he knew not of any stories associated with the badlands, or even this place. Then again his contact with other people was limited and these badlands had a reputation for the mysterious.

"Well fuck, everyone knows about the stories," the smallest said, "but they're just that right? Legends of legends made to scare little shits who got too close!"

"Oh sure, the stories are false," the veteran casually replied, "But the location for what they speak of is true enough. Perhaps even the stories of loot beyond your dreams are true. Either way, at least one part is right."

"Eh, better than putting up with shit at base in any case."

"Agreed."

There was brief silence that was quickly broken the by the largest raider.

"But what exactly are we looking for? You weren't specific about that sort of thing."

"We're looking for a fake rock."

"What the fuck? A fake rock?" laughed the smallest, the largest also chortled while not getting the joke, "When's a rock not a rock?"

"When there's a tunnel behind it, that's when it's not a rock. The old yokels in that town claim that behind one of these here rock walls, there's a tunnel that leads to a door. At least that's what they said under intimidation, and that's all we'll ever hear from them again."

"You're making this sound like one of those old campfire stories they told us when we was little." said the largest, "You know, hidden treasure, old caves, that sort of thing."

"That's essentially what it is, 'cept what's in that tunnel is worth more than campfire treasure, if we can crack it open."

The man was interested now. Anything that was important enough to these guys was certainly a point of interest for him. By now, the three were walking through various tents in what would be roughly the middle of the encampment, and approaching what would be the northern facing wall. The man was faced with a decision; he could make a dash for it, leave this place and return tomorrow or carefully follow the raiders to see if they could find this 'fake rock'. He thought it over and settled on following the raiders.

When the three were a ways past his tent, he opened the plastic flaps and crawled out onto the sandy rock. The howling wind that had been low enough to allow him to eavesdrop was also loud enough to mask the small scraping noises of shifting canvas. The man eventually stood up and carefully crept behind the tents closer to where the raiders were now standing. They were facing the rock wall and the man watched as the veteran tapped it with his rifle. There was the steady 'clonk' of solid rock, but the man knew what he was waiting for.

"What're you doing with your gun?" asked the largest and obviously slowest of the three.

"Nothing, I just happen to enjoy hitting my gun against rocks" replied the veteran in deep sarcasm.

"Oh." Answered the largest, demonstrating he was as stupid as he looked. Behind him the smallest laughed quietly.

The veteran sighed and left the conversation there; knowing that continuing to explain would only tire his vocal cords. For a quarter of an hour, he hit his rifle against the rock face, searching for the noise he wanted. The veteran's companions sat down and drank water, ate rations and chipped away at time, while the man crouched behind the tents and watched in silence. Any wrong move could send him hurtling to his grave. The sky grew dark, and the man feared he would not have time to reach his home safely, but the lure of these raiders was too much to pass.

There was an audible bonk as the rifle finally hit hollow rock. The fake rock, as the veteran had said. He smiled and dropped the gun, then began testing the rock at various places, obviously looking for a grip of some sort. All the while, his comrades watched with excitement, knowing they were close to their goal, but not how close. Eventually, the veteran called out to them.

"You assholes going to help at all, or is it going to be the entire night before we get this thing?"

"Holy shit man," groaned the smallest as he dropped his weapon and went over and searched the wall as well. The largest shrugged and placed his hammer on the ground before going over to help. The three poked every hole and crack, searching for anything that indicated a door.

This was the perfect opportunity to snatch their weapons, thought the man. Dare he take the chance? One turn and the gig would be up. He took the chance and made slow movements towards the weapons placed only ten metres from him. The hammer was closest so the man grasped it carefully, still on all fours, watching for any movement of the raiders. They remained intent on the wall, and the man cached the hammer in a nearby tent, and then proceeded to take the rifle and machine gun. The quiet theft went smoothly, and with all weapons cached, the man returned to watching.

The three were still groping the wall, and the man found himself losing interest. That was until the veteran laughed with joy and leapt back from the wall, holding a piece of 'rock'. Where he had pulled the piece, there was an aged looking electronic panel with a button and what the man assumed to be a microphone of sorts. The rock must have been rigid plastic, which perfectly mimicked the rock and protected the electronics from the elements.

"And here's the conduit!" cried the veteran happily, "The next part is simple. Stand back gentlemen, I need some room here!" He pressed the button and waited.

"Identification and password please." Rang a robotic female voice from the panel.

"The fuck? A password and identification?" the smallest said irritably, "You didn't say nothing about a password!"

"I didn't say anything about a panel either, but you don't seem concerned about that. Keep quiet while I work this thing!" replied the veteran.

"Password incorrect." Stated the voice.

"Override E3, directive 499765H." Said the veteran directly into the microphone. There was silence for a minute until an audible whirring noise was made. The panel flashed and sparked, the seemingly stable stone wall shuddered. The shuddering stopped and a section of the wall began sliding upward, revealing a steel door set several feet inside a tunnel.

"Override accepted, welcome Mr. President." said the robotic voice

"And here it is, gentlemen, a fake rock with a door behind it." The veteran said with a flourish towards the door. "A treasure beyond your dreams waits behind that door that will make us plenty of caps. But all that tomorrow, let's gathers our weapons and be gone."

"What, we're going?" whined the smallest obviously disappointed by the statement, "We just find this thing and you want to leave right now? What if someone else finds the door?"

"The door closes after a few minutes and no-one lives out here anyway. Besides, do you really want to be here for the night? Any stories of man-eating wildlife beyond these walls are just as true as this door."

With that in mind, the smallest turned to pick up his weapon, only to find it not there. The man noticed that the largest was equally perplexed as he was searching the ground for them. Shit, thought the man, shit, shit, shit. He hadn't expected them to leave the door like that and now was trapped by searching raiders. But wait a minute, thought the man; I currently have the only weapon so my escape could be easily made. The man thought about it for a minute and decided to make an appearance.

"Where the hell are the guns?" asked the largest," We only set them down right here."

"There is a fourth among us dumbass," replied the veteran, looking around nervously, "Someone was here before us, and now has us at their mercy." Again the veteran demonstrated an uncanny brilliance.

"Correct." Said the man as he walked from behind a tent, holding his rifle level with the veteran's face, "Now kindly place your hands behind your head." This was the first time in a while that the man had spoken to another human being, and he marvelled that he could speak the words.

"Well, here we are at your mercy. What do you want." The veteran said, raising his hands to his head. "No doubt you heard all the talk of treasure behind the door."

The man nodded.

"And now what? We could easily over-power you and take your rifle, or you could leave us living another day. What's your plan now?" The man hadn't pondered his next move and felt a chill of fear at the raider's cool approach despite a weapon in his face. The other two raiders were silent. The largest made no move towards the man, which was fortunate as he could easily lay a punch to the man.

"This plan work for you?" asked the man as he cocked and fired a shot into the largest man's chest. The large raider fell like a rock, as his heart beat its last flow of blood through his veins. This piece of brutality seemed unnecessary but the man had his own motives for doing so.

"Shit!" cried the smallest before he too was taken down by a bullet from the man's rifle. The headshot rendered instant death to the raider, leaving only the veteran left alive. The man turned and looked down the barrel at the raider's head. He was about to pull the trigger when he noticed he was laughing. A man staring death in the face laughing? The man hesitated, giving time for the raider to speak.

"I must thank you for your deed here." The raider said looking at the man with cold eyes, "As soon as those two turned their backs I would've blasted them some new holes. Competition, you see? Can't let others share the bounty of this Vault."

"Vault?" the man said nervously. The stories about the Vaults were universal; they were safe havens for some, living hell for others.

"Not a traditional Vault for crazy government social experiments, but a Vault none the less. What's inside is what's important, but you won't need to know about that. Once again thanks for your work, and enjoy the afterlife!"

The man saw the attack coming but his reflexes fell short of the raider's pistol. Hidden under his coat, the raider easily pulled it out and fired three shots into the man's chest. Pain beyond pain engulfed the man's body, and he dropped the rifle instantly. Falling to his knees, he watched through tears as the raider whipped his pistol butt against his face. Before the cold embrace of unconsciousness embraced him, the man though one thing and one thing only; this was definitely not routine.


End file.
